


The British Government

by seerofsight



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: British Empire, England - Freeform, Government, Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, Other, crack ship, holmesxengland, holmland, like foaming at the mouth crack ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-21
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seerofsight/pseuds/seerofsight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For his homeland, Mycroft Holmes occupies a minor position in the British Government…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The British Government

**Author's Note:**

> There is no Hetalia in this. There is only a man and his political passion.

Mycroft Holmes was a man who lived to uphold the cliché that he was married to his work. And for his work, he sat before an elegant oval table decorated with the complementary essentials of elevensies. The limp lukewarmth of his tea fluttered around his cheeks, fogging his sense of smell with the tangibly sharp essence of peppermint. Setting his Queen Anne cup in its saucer soundlessly, Mycroft grazed the bitten edge of his ladyfinger cake over the static tea, waiting for the crust to retain the appropriate volume of his beverage before depositing the cake in his mouth. Mycroft swabbed the pads of his fingers with his lips, preening the sweet residue from his erect digits. His Lady England would not be soiled by his vice; he resolved long ago that if he must permit his sweet tooth, that his Lady would not suffer from the sticky, base litter that the sugar left. Luxuriating in the heavy, creamed treat settling its heated comfort across his palate, Mycroft swallowed his snack with gusto, and readied himself to exploit his talents to accommodate the whims of his empire.

His beautiful, solemn empire.  


Retrieving his umbrella from the edge of the white table, Mycroft flexed his thick grip on the hooked handle. As the man dexterously twisted the long ornament in circles and loops, he circumnavigated the edges of his petite, eggshell colored canvas. Each pegged flap of the embroidered fabric was reaffirmed in its security, ending with the parted entrance. Mycroft hung his umbrella upon his forearm to better coax the edges, spread open without restraint from its wind-whipped exposure, tightly closed, and nimbly bound the once-door closed, blocking the view of Mycroft’s tidy private garden.  


Mycroft ignored the wind-fueled struggle made by the now secured door, and grasped the slick stem of his umbrella. Building memento with another forceful spin, Mycroft drove the point of his umbrella downward, puncturing the earth deep enough to hold his accessory cocked upward. “Do forgive my neglect, my Lady,” Mycroft uttered, grinding the beak of his umbrella deeper into the British soil. “Our Queen often calls for my services these days, and she does not always consider our needs.”  


The elder Holmes brother exerted his weight into one finale thrust on the end of his umbrella and slid it out leisurely. Though his pale grey suit was a testimony to the financial security of his lifestyle, Mycroft disregarded the potential dirt stains as he knelt onto the manicured lawn and fondled the sides of the newly established hole with a finger. “I visited your sister, Lady India. She was certainly the warmest of your sisters, and her moist soil was heavenly, but she was so ungroomed. So many bugs.” Mycroft made a sour face at the memory of his relations. “Oh, do forgive me, my Lady. How unromantic of me to speak of another when my Lady is so in need of my attentions.”  


Mycroft retracted his finger and rose to his feet. Setting the umbrella on the side of the table, Mycroft tugged his coat off of his frame, folded it, and placed it on his chair. Adroit fingers undid the buttons lined up the matching vest, and then the crisp white dress shirt, both articles were settled atop of the jacket. Only upon unfastening his ballistic vest did Mycroft dawdle.  
“I’m afraid I have been unfaithful to my diet, darling.” Mycroft unclasped the binding straps and heaved the vest over his head. His curved pot belly expanded underneath a beige union suit, but was quickly sucked in. Only the best of appearances would be made for his Lady. “But I will to reimburse you momentarily for my poor conviction.”  


The ballistic vest was disregarded on the ground, and Mycroft reassumed his place on the ground to strip off his shoes and socks. Finally, as he knelt with knees slightly spread in front of the hole, Mycroft unhitched his tight-fitted trousers, dragging them down over his long, thick legs. Lifting one knee, than the other, Mycroft held his trousers and added them to the rest of the folded pile. Now the same stout fingers twisted and pulled at the buttons of the union suit. A bristled chest was exposed first, and as the arms were stripped, the trail of dark hair was led down over the bare expanse of Mycroft’s chest, curving thinly around the navel and then pooling in a flock of curls at the base of the torso.  


The undergarments were given no less consideration as they joined the other clothing in an equally tidy folded position. Goose bumps littered Mycroft’s bare, pudgy body as the chilled air fondled him. Crouching on his hands and knees, Mycroft lowered his head to the ground, his hips stationed upright, and caressed the ground’s opening with his lips. Eventually Mycroft’s tongue was summoned, and lovingly exerted its vigor against the outer edges, petting the small burrow with doused strokes.  


Mycroft pulled up and sat on his legs. Smiling down at his focus, the man gently pinched the folds of earth lumped on the inner sides of the hole. “Forgive my forwardness, my lady, but you are rather frigid today.” Mycroft lifted himself from the ground and approached the table. From which, the government employee cradled the still-steaming tea pot in his hands and returned to his seat. “Please allow me the privilege of reconditioning our… constitution.”

The tea pot was tipped over the earthen cavity and peppermint tea saturated the hole. Tea was poured faster than it was absorbed, and once the opening began to overflow, Mycroft trickled the steamy liquid around the radius. “That’s it, my dear. Take all that you wish for.” The tea pot was drained quickly, and placed as close to the table as Mycroft could reach. As the man tilted his face down near the orifice again, scented steam clung to his face and left a clammy residue around the quickly-coloring cheeks. Testing the heated area with nimble kisses first, Mycroft rose again to his position on all fours. The balding man crawled forward a few paces, and rooted himself so his stiffened girth was aligned with his Lady’s still-full opening.  


Mycroft lowered his body to the ground, spreading his limbs liberally. As he lodged himself into the hole, the tea spilled out around his hips, creating a perplexing contrast of heat between his upper and lower body. Mycroft relaxed his muscles as he embraced the sweltering intimacy, and caressed his limbs through the thick grass of his Lady. Hips were elevated by the leverage provided by Mycroft’s knees and crashed down again, the rapid shift of perception between the constricted heat and the sharp exposure was awe-inspiring. Mycroft burrowed his face into the earth as he repeated the motion with uncharacteristic heartiness, all while greedily taking in the scent of the musky soil blended with the surprisingly complementing flares of peppermint.

Contentment was beginning to settle in his mind when a curious thought took shape. Mycroft halted his rhythm and carefully heaved himself to a sitting position in full-arousal. “Do be patient with me, darling. I have a hunch that I would very much appreciate indulging.”  


Mycroft stepped over to the table and retrieved his black umbrella. He examined the familiar shape of it for a moment, pinching his fingers around the crooked wooden handle. Mycroft turned in place and returned to his kneeling place, noting with irritation that his knees had rubbed grooves into the ground. “Please pardon my actions, my Lady, these bruises I made are most ungentlemanly.” Mycroft said as he placed his knees back into the curves they had left. “I won’t be much longer, if my theory is proven correct.”

Mycroft resettled himself back on and in the ground, sighing from the pleasantness of the still-warm ground enveloping tightly around him. Bending his elbows and straightening them frontward, Mycroft grasped the front point of his umbrella and edged the handle down along his spine. Two bulbous muscles cushioned the point of the handle as it hooked itself onto the tight, puckered slit tucked in-between them. Mycroft dexterously adjusted his tool to gain a deeper hold of himself, and curved the cradle of his umblrella deeper until—  


Oh.  


_Oh._  


Mycroft held his position with his umbrella and began to hoist and plunge himself into the British soil while bucking into his own penetrator. His breath was quickly lost as he struggled to keep up with his neglected libido, and a welcomed pressure coiled in his abdomen. The painful cramping in his arms and shoulders was ignored as Mycroft exerted his low reserve of energy into wildly hurtling himself down into the contracted clutch of his Lady and then raising himself to meet the unyielding union he had made with his umbrella.  


“Gah… gah…” Mycroft led himself to his edge, maliciously teetering between completion and need. “God save the Queen!” Mycroft declared as his stomach compressed blissfully and he drained himself, unrestrained, into the welcoming hole.

The government worker relaxed his body into its position, trying to retain the emitting afterglow. After a few moments, Mycroft unhitched the umbrella from himself with some awkward difficulty. He would master the new technique another day. After freeing himself, Mycroft set his umbrella on the grass beside him and lifted himself from the ground slowly. Mycroft turned himself from his position on all fours to lay down on his back and rested his hands on his stomach.  


“Please don’t go telling Madame France about what I tried with my umbrella, my Lady.” Mycroft turned onto his side and began to rub the grass in a fluid circle. “You know what a gossip she can be.”

**Author's Note:**

> With this, a new ship is born: Mycroft Holmes/England... I'll name it Holmland.


End file.
